


In which John needs to find Sherlock.

by slytherdor



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Fluff, John is badass, M/M, wounded sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:33:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherdor/pseuds/slytherdor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is very very wrong and John realizes as soon as his brain switches on in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which John needs to find Sherlock.

John tumbles out of bed. Something is wrong. There has been no violin music this morning. There has been no coffee or tea making noises. No crashes. Nothing. He sprints down the stairs, past the kitchen and stops outside the door to Sherlock's room. He knocks. 'Sherlock? Hello?' John pushes the door open softly and peers into the gloom. Sherlock is not in his bed.

John moves to the kitchen. Sherlock is not in the kitchen. Sherlock is not in the living room. Sherlock is not in the flat. John takes out his phone."Sherlock, where are you? - J W". John waits a whole hour. Nothing.  
'Misses Hudson!'  
'What is it dear, you two have been very quiet in here.'  
'Did you seen Sherlock leave? I don't know where he is.'  
'Oh, well no. Oh John, you're pale as a sheet. Why don't you sit down and I'll make you some tea?'  
'No, thankyou Mrs. Hudson, I have to find him.

John dons his jacket and thunders down the stairs, pulling out his phone on the way. The first number he calls is Lestrade.  
‘John?’  
’Lestrade. Have you seen Sherlock?’  
‘No… Why? Have you lost him?’  
‘He’s disappeared.’  
‘Call Mycroft?’  
‘Um… No. No. I don’t think that’s… No.’ John is seriously considering it though.  
‘Okay, well let me know when you find him. We can’t have him walking around unsupervised now, can we?’ The last bit is meant to be a joke.  
John hangs up.

The second number he calls is Molly's.  
‘John! Hi.’  
‘Molly, hello. Have you seen Sherlock today?’  
‘Oh… No, I haven’t seen him for the past three days…’ Something ugly shifts in John’s stomach.  
‘Are you sure, Molly? He said he was talking to you yesterday. He said he was at Bart’s yesterday.’  
‘Oh, I’m sorry John but he hasn't been here.’  
‘Okay, thanks Molly.’ John hangs up.

John is walking up Baker Street now. He decides to call Sherlock. The phone rings once, twice, three times. The dial tone stops. On the other end, John can hear ragged breathing. ‘Sherlock?’ Just as the word slips from his mouth, John can hear the sickening crack of knuckles on flesh. He hears a strangled cry.  
‘Sherlock?’ John cries. There’s a sound like shifting material, clanking of keys.  
‘Hello John.’ John doesn't know the voice.

‘Um, hi. Why do you have Sherlock’s phone?’  
‘Oh John. John, John, John. Sherlock was snooping. He’s right here. Say hello to John, Sherlock.’ Sherlock says his name.  
John’s stomach seems to vanish. He has never heard Sherlock sound like this. His voice is jagged and raspy. He sounds to be in immense pain. 

‘What have you done to him? Where are you?’ John’s voice comes out in a snarl.  
‘Oh John’, the malignant voice says again.  
‘I think that I’m going to leave Sherlock chained up here. If you’re not here to claim him in four hours, you’ll be mopping him up.’ 

The line goes dead. John can’t breathe. He hails a cab.  
‘Scotland Yard. An extra 10 quid if you can get me there quickly.’ John storms into Lestrade’s office and slams his phone on the desk.  
‘I need you to trace Sherlock's phone. He's in trouble.’ It’s not a question. Lestrade doesn't ask.

Greg can see John’s military face and calls Donovan into his office. Greg, John and Sally are in the room when the call is played back. Greg looks stricken. Even Sally’s mouth drops. Within half an hour they have the address. It’s in the middle of the Thames.  
‘John, wait. We need to look at this properly.’ Calls Greg.  
‘No.’ growls John, ‘I’m going to go now. You can look at this properly. We have four hours. I’m not taking any risks.’ With that, he storms out of the building and hails a cab.

'Thames road, across from Oliver’s Island. An extra 10 quid if you get me there quickly.’ The cab speeds off. 

John stands on the bank of the Thames staring at the group of trees. Sherlock was in there. He pulled a 50 out of his wallet and waved it at a passing motorboat.  
‘What can I do you for?’ asks the wrinkled old man.  
‘This is yours if you get me to that island right now.’  
‘Jump in, sir.’  
Within a minute, John is clambering out of the boat. He doesn't hear the driver’s thankyou.

‘SHERLOCK!? SHERLOCK, IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, CALL OUT!’ John stands stock still.  
After about a minute he decides – fuck it. He tramps into the trees. The wind is freezing and he zips up his jacket. After ten minutes of working his way through brambles and branches, John, out of the corner of his eye, spots a flash of something that shouldn't be there. Skin.

He pushes through a particularly large bramble cluster with a fair amount of swearing and scratching and when he finally looks up, John stops breathing. Stops moving. Stops thinking. Sherlock. In front of John.  
Sherlock’s lean figure is strung up. He is wearing nothing but his underwear. Black underwear that makes his skin look deathly white. Maybe though, that's just Sherlock's skin.

His legs are peppered with bruises and scratches. His stomach is covered with tiny grazes. His feet aren't touching the ground. His arms have trails of dried blood that looks like it’s been running down from where Sherlock is suspended by his wrists. Sherlock lifts his head. John gasps. Sherlock has two back eyes. Blood on his lips and coming from his nose. His raven hair is plastered to his forehead, The wind gusts and Sherlock turns. John nearly collapses.

Sherlock’s back is covered in angry red, bleeding lines. John realizes that they're lashes from a whip.  
‘John…’  
John snaps back into action. He clears the distance between them. He’s too short to reach the ropes.  
John puts a leg up into the tree. He reaches the branch Sherlock is tied to and reaches out.  
‘Sherlock, I’m going to lower you down. Bend your knees.’ His fingers fumble with the knot for a few seconds before Sherlock drops to the ground with an audible thump.  
'Fuck.’ John mutters. He jumps out of the tree. Sherlock isn't moving.  
‘Sherlock?’

The wind whips through the trees and Sherlock starts to shiver violently. John shrugges off his jacket and wwraps it around Sherlock's torso and arms. Good god it’s cold, he thinks.  
‘John…’  
‘Sherlock, I’m here. Everything’s going to be fine.’  
‘No, John… ‘  
‘Sh, Sherlock. Shush. I’m going to call Lestrade.’ 

‘NO!’ 

John jumps at the sudden change. Sherlock still hasn't moved. John takes his shoulders and maneuvers him into his own lap. Sherlock’s head is resting on John’s shoulder.

‘John. Have to go. You need to go.’  
‘No, Sherlock. I’m not leaving you.’  
‘You. Go. Now.’  
‘No. Sherlock, I’m not leaving you. Why can’t we stay?’  
‘Need to go, no time…’  
At this point, the colour goes out of Sherlock’s face and he goes limp in John’s arms.  
‘No, no Sherlock! Wake up Sherlock.’ John pulls out his phone.  
‘Lestrade! Where are you? I have him. He needs medical attention. Get an ambulance across from Oliver’s island right now.’  
John hangs up.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock and tries to keep him warm but the shivering continues. John makes a decision. With a lot of grunting and groaning, John takes Sherlock in his arms and cradles him like a baby.  
He may look thin, but this man is nothing but muscle. When they get to the bank of the river, John can see Lestrade and Lestrade makes a call. In a few minutes, Sherlock is in the hands of a medical team and John is sitting in the passenger seat of Lestrade’s car, attempting not to cry.

Just as they’re pulling away from the island, it blows up. A cloud of fire and smoke goes up from the center of the Thames and the noise is deafening. No one moves. John can’t stop thinking. What if he hadn't got to Sherlock in time? What if he had, but he hadn't got him out in time?  
What if, what if, what if. 

Back at the hospital, John sits in the waiting room tapping his feet and breathing hard. Mycroft appears, coming out from Sherlock's room. John stands, he hadn't seen Mycroft enter the room at all.  
‘Mycroft!’  
‘Good afternoon John, you may go in’

He points to the door leading to Sherlock’s room. John is on the verge or saying that they weren't allowed, but this is Mycroft Holmes. He can do whatever he likes. John bursts through the door just as a doctor is leaving.  
Sherlock is sitting up, he’s awake. Not shivering. There’s still no colour in his cheeks.  
‘John… Mycroft.’ His voice is still jagged, although his breathing is regular.

John is at his bedside in an instant.  
‘What happened?’ he asks quietly, stuck between kissing this man and throttling him. Wait, thought John. Do I want to kiss this man? But I’m not… Yes. I want to kiss this man. This beautiful, bruised man.  
‘John…’ Sherlock sounds so broken. He sounds so battered and beaten that John’s eyes fill with tears.

‘Sherlock, it’s okay. It’s okay. Stop talking.’  
‘No, John… They… He…’ John’s heart is breaking more with every word he utters.  
John silences Sherlock with a kiss.  
Sherlock jumps.  
Sherlock winces.  
Sherlock relaxes as John cups his face.  
Sherlock opens his mouth.  
John explores his mouth. When they finally part, Sherlock is breathing hard again, but then, so is John.

Stay?’ whispers Sherlock, almost inaudible. ‘Of course,’ replies John. John stays.


End file.
